


The Monsters in my head

by RJ_Winchester



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Depressed Stiles, Sadness, Self Harm, bad feelings.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RJ_Winchester/pseuds/RJ_Winchester
Summary: Stiles is depressed and alone. These are one shots of his time by himself. Each one shot has the inspiration of a song.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 51





	1. Sucker for pain

He looked at his pale face in the mirror, propped up on the sink using his elbows, and a shaking hand clasped around a blade that he referred to as his saving grace. The blade that kept him sane, and had been keeping him gounded for years. His anchor was that blade.

The feeling of it sinking into his skin didn't sting like it had done years ago. The sight of the blood falling down his arm like the ink on a page didn't bring fear from his chest as it had the first time he'd done this. Instead, the pain calmed the growing storm in his head, and the sight of red liquid trickling down his arm gave him a sense of peace.

He deserved to hurt, and he wished he did. He prayed that each time he dragged the metal across his skin that he would feel some sort of pain. He cried every time he did this to himself, because he felt nothing anymore. He didn't feel the pain blossoming on his arms as he once did.

He felt calm. He wasn't meant to feel calm and relaxed about this and the more frustrated he got at not feeling the pain, the more cuts he would make. He would cut and slice and scratch until he threw up just to make sure he suffered at least a little.

He deserved the pain and the emptiness. He was after all the pathetic weak excuse of a human. He was nothing compared to the people around him. He wasn't fast or strong. At one point in his life he would have said he was smart, but that was taken from him as well.

He no longer had a place among his friends. He was the outcast, housed by the group out of pity. He knew so many people and yet couldn't help but feel lonely among his supposed friends.

He didn't deserve them. He didn't deserve to keep the company of athletic geniuses. He was unworthy of their friendship. Of course he was well aware they all knew this as well. He knew they only kept him around because they felt sorry for him.

He had always been the weakest link and what hurt him the most was that his friends refused to admit it to him. They would tell him he was smart and kind, and that he was a good person. He never dared to believe them, for if that were the case then he wouldn't feel do empty.

He knew he didn't have the right to be around them. He was nothing more than a burden. He was aggravating and upsetting. He constantly caused annoyance to those around him, albiet unintentionally not that anybody actually cared. Why should they?

He should remain alone for the rest of his life. It wasn't that he was concerned with getting hurt himself. He usually was the cause of a broken friendship anyway. This way meant he couldn't hurt anybody.

He was tired. He was tired of hurting people, and upsetting them. He was done being a punching bag for people he didn't even deserve to be around. He was done causing everyone so much pain. They didn't need the pain the way that he did.

He dragged the blade up his arm again. Each new trickle of blood brought on more self destruction. He could hear the words clearly in his head and every word meant another wound that people could actually see. He didn't want their sympathy. He did this for a reason that they could never possibly understand. Another cut.

'Worthless' and he cut across his arm. 'Pathetic' and he cut up his shoulder. 'Weak' and he sliced his elbow. 'Freak' and he stabbed at his upper arm.

Then he stopped.

He threw the blade into the sink and turned on the tap. He once again looked at himself. He tilted his head and squinted. Who was the person looking back at him? 

His eyes were sunken in, dark rings circling them. His skin looked as though he had never set foot in the sun. His hair was dishelved and his arms drenched in blood.  
This wasn't him. This wasn't who he was. But maybe it was and he just hadn't seen it. He sighed as he watched the tears fall from his sleep deprived eyes.

He opened up the drawer and pulled out gauze, cleaning alcahol, and bandages. He wrapped his arms up to his shoulders and threw the rubbish into his bag. He'd get rid of it later on.

There was a knock at the door and he panicked. He dropped the blade into the trash and more tears began to fall. His hands were shaking and his mind racing. He had lost the .one thing he needed.

"Stiles, kid. You ready for school?" His Father asked from outside the door.

He swallowed and nodded his head despite no one being able to see. "Y-yeah Dad. Be right out."

He stepped back and looked into the mirror one final time for that morning. His thin frame was littered with scars, new and old. His entire chest was coated in red skin from his recent activities. There was fresh patches of gauze and bandages in most areas.

Seeing himself like this, hurting and suffering, brought a small smile to his face. He threw on a t shirt, plaid shirt and his red hoodie, ensuring all his torso was covered. He left the bathroom, it was clear of all evidence of what he had been doing.

He said good bye to his Father and climbed into his jeep. If his Father, the Sherrif, couldn't piece together what his son had done to himself, then neither could his supposed friends.


	2. Mercy

He rolled up his sleeves, scars painting his forearms as though he were a canvas for pain. He pulled the army knife from it's place in his jean pocket and flipped it open. The moonlight hit the knife and sparkled. He was practically vibrating with the need to drag is across his skin. After the day he had, he knew he deserved it. It was made very clear to him how much he deserved to bleed. 

But it wasn't just that he deserved it. He needed it. He needed to pay for everything wrong with him. He needed to suffer the sting of the blade up his flesh to make up for the fact that he was so worthless. 

Everyone had told him that day how much he deserved the pain, and the loneliness, and the aching inside his heart that begged to be ended but would never be allowed to stop.

He relived in his mind what had happened with each person who had told him that day exactly what they thought was wrong with him. For each person, he did something different with the knife. For every singular painful word they shot at him, he engraved it with the blade.

He knew how pathetic he must look. He thought if he could feel their pain maybe it would make up for the suffering he caused them. He hoped it would help him feel more grounded once it was done. Too bad he knew that hope was for suckers.

When he decided he'd had enough scars on his arms this week, he pulled of his shirt and threw it away from him as though it were offending him, and that the scars should be visible. He dragged the jagged edge of the blade up his side, the glistening blood outlining his ribs. He sliced open both of his shins with several long, thin lines. He brought the knife to his shoulders and carved at them harshly and vigourously. 

By the time he had dropped the knife, panting and void of all but pain, he was practically drenched in his blood. It oozed down his skin and dripped onto the waiting towel that he had been smart enough to put down beneath his battered body. 

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of his tv. His eyes were sunken in and he was pale as death. Scars new and old littered his torso and despite his carefully placed wounds he felt as though his heart itself was bleeding.

He stood and walked sluggishly to where he kept all of his supplies. He went through the same routine of cleaning the wounds, and although he wanted to recoil at the sting he daren't move a muscle, and covering them woth gauze and bandages. Thankfuly it was a Friday and his Father would be gone for the full three days of the long weekend. He would have that time to heal, as he always did.

He threw the knife to the floor in rage. He didn't understand. He couldn't figure out why he would never be enough, and why anyone put up with his antics. He didn't deserve it. They knew it, they had openly admitted it to him on several occasions throughout the years. He didn't know why he was still living afer causing everyone so much pain. 

He curled in on himself as he started crying. Thick tears rolled down his face and onto the towel. He wanted it to stop. He wanted all the thoughts in his head to silence, and the angry scars on his skin to fade. He was desperate for his heart to stop aching, and his chest to stop rising and falling.

He wished for death. He asked for it to stop. He screamed and whispered in a pattern for it to end. He prayed to whatever deity was out there that it would stop. He begged for mercy, knowing he would never deserve it.

And when he arose hours later having passed out from mental, physical and emotional exhaustion, he got up, got dressed, and climbed out of his window, dragging his body to his car. He drove it to the top of the preserve, stared out on the town from the edge of the cliff, and begged some more.


	3. Mean

He had managed to go three weeks. Three full weeks without giving in, to the pain and the hatred that grew inside him. Three weeks without intentionally causing himself bodily harm. For the first time in the six months he had gotten this low, he was fine. He was in no way better of course, and he knew the longing for the sense of his trickling blood would not soon fade, but he wasn't bad enough to give in.

This was a record for him. He believed he had done well, and was surprised at himself. Three weeks didn't seem like all that much, but it had made a difference. Throughout the second week he felt the dark cloud in his head begin to dissipate, and the darkness inside him begin to light again.

Then he went to lacrosse practise.

Usually, this wasn't a concern for him as he didn't actually get to play on the field. He'd put on his uniform and run drills, then he would be sentenced to an hour on the bench watching the jocks in their natural habitats. This week, he assumed, would be no different. 

He threw on his uniform and he hit the field. He ran the drills, warmed up, and parked himself on the bench. He watched in silence, unusual comsidering Coach Finstock often caught him muttering plays to himself. He watched the game, and halfway through witnessed Greenburg hit the deck with a cry.

He recalled his name being bellowed and felt his legs move him onto the field without his permission. Now he was panicked. What if he got hurt and his stitches ripped open? The blood would be seen through his uniform easily, and he would be questioned on it. The thought of anyone finding out when he was doing so well made his face pale and his heart race.

He had just been stood their, trying to get himself down from a panic atrack, when he felt a weight force itself into his lacrosse stick. He turned his attention to the tool and noticed the ball in the net. His eyes widened at the scream that broke through his distracted wall and he ran to get as far from the impending doom as possible.

Evidently, he was quiet fast when he was scared. He thought maybe running with the wolves had something to do with that. He was able to dodge most of the hits coming his way and at some point had managed to throw the ball into the net and past Danny.

He froze. He wasn't sure how it had happened. He didn't believe it had happened. He pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming and when he realised he was indeed awake, he cheered and threw his arms into the air.

For the first time in weeks he'd felt genuine happiness. He hadn't wasted his time going to practise to sit on the bench, and he'd even been lucky enough to score. Now all he had to do was keep up this lucky streak, and that's what he did.

By the end of practise, even Coach had congratulated him. He had done well and he felt amazing. He couldn't wait to tell his Dad about his success. He might even actually get to play this season if he could keep going.  
But on his way through the halls of the highschool, he got the itching feeling that it wasn't going to last. He chalked it up to his hypervigilance (running with wolves will do that to you) and kept on walking. He didn't expect to be slammed into a set of lockers a mere three feet from his exit. He certainly didn't expect it to be his teammate either.

"Finstock out you in after me? Is he crazy?! You're worse than I am Stilinski. At least I play the field!" Greenburg yelled. "But somehow you managed to score today! More than once. How is it that you, a weak little shrimp, survived a whole game of lacrosse with our muscle head teammates?"

Stiles remained silent, attempting to pry the boys hands from his torso and arm. He was still healing from his last escapade and he was worried the cuts would reopen if he wasn't careful. Greenburg just laughed cruely and slammed him harder, eliciting a groan of pain.

"Stay away from the field Stilinski, or you'll be sorry you ever left the bench. There's no way I'm going to let you of all people take my spot on the team." Greenburg punched him hard in the stomach and walked away. 

Stiles fell to the floor and gasped for breath, the wind having been knocked out of him. He felt his eyes blur and his hands go numb as he watched Greenburg leave. He thought about leaving the team in that moment. He couldn't take anymore of the hatred that he was slowly shifting off of his shoulders. He'd been doing so well at staying away from the blades that called out to him each night, but he knew it wouldn't last.

Perhaps Greenburg could be his new blade. He considered the fact that in lacrosse, people got hurt. It was a violent game and most of the time players left the field with more bruises than skin. It wouldn't be unusual if he were to make first line and come home with a battered and beaten body courtesy of Greenburg. Anyone would see the bruises and know it was from practise or from a game.

He grinned as he stood and gathered his balance. This would be far easier to hide than cuts. Far safer. Far more Stiles.


	4. Broken

He wasn't sure what was wrong with him. He knew that something was wrong inside of him. Something about him was broken. He just didn't know what. He wished that he could fix it. If he fixed it, maybe people wouldn't hate him as much. Better yet, if he fixed it, maybe he could just dissapear into the shadows and never be noticed again. If he had never been around in the first place, if he had never existed, everything he touched wouldn't go to hell. 

It was odd to think about that. Some days he was desoerate for attention, clawing at the false affection people gave him like it was his lifeline. Other days he wished he would just turn into nothing. He wanted to be invisible. He thought, perhaps if he was, then things would be better for everyone.

It was then that he made his decision. He wanted nothing more than to please those he cared for so deeply. This would please them. They'd be happy, and he hoped they would stay that way as he drove along the rain covered roads to the preserve.

He made no effort to hide the jeep. He didn't want anyone thinking he was missing and wasting their energy trying to find him. They'd be even more angry with him if he wasted their time, and he didn't want that for them. Especially not his Father. 

So he parked on the side of the road, close to the gateway into the preserve and not far from the Hale house. He stayed in the jeep for a long time, the emptiness in his head echoing, and the blank feeling in his heart was heavy on his chest. He left a note, telling whoever found the jeep where to take it and leaving a phone number to his Dad. He left the keys in the glove compartment, along with his phone. He didn't wanr anything to distract him.

He stepped out into the rain, his converse squelching in the mud beneath his feet. The rain was loud as it hit his jacket, louder than it had been in the car. If he had any thoughts in his head right now, he was sure the rain and few birds would drown them out. He sort of wished he did have the hammering thoughts in his head, but was worried that they might keep him from the task at hand.

So he walked. It felt like hours. He walked through the preserve, the trees growing thicker the deeper he walked. The rest of the world seemed to evaporate the more he walked. He wasn't sad, he wasn't angry. He was heavy, and blank.

He reached the cliffs and he stared out into the rain. The breeze normally would've felt cold on his skin. Had it not been for the leaves moving, he wouldn't have even noticed the wind. He was numb, inside and out.   
He was glad his hands weren't so numb that they couldn't pull the rope from his pocket. He was thankful he'd kept it. He hadn't been sure why he'd hidden it away when he'd last used it, but not he knew why. It had been a matter of time.

He tied the rope around a branch on one of the stronger trees, one he could vaguely remember climbing once. He hoped the branch would take his weight. He stood up on the branches beneath where the rope hung lossely before looping it around his neck. It was tight, and his body almost faught with his actions.

Almost, but not quite. So that's how he was found, Stiles Stilinski, hung from a tree in a plain blue t shirt, red plaid over the top, and his hair a dishelved mess. It was how everyone remembered him when he was alive, and it's how he planned on being remembered if anyone remembered him at all.

The funeral was on a sunny day. Stiles would've made a comment about how cruel it was for the sun to shine on such a horrid day, but it was his funeral, and he would've said he deserved for it to be sunny so that people would be less sad, if there was anyone who was actually sad he was gone.


	5. Self inflicted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self inflicted - smile empty soul

Something wasn't right. He wasn't sure what it was exactly, he couldn't place it. But something, was not right. Where was he? Why was it dark? Why did he feel like he was being watched? What the hell was happening? 

He cracked open an eyelid, answering why exactly he was dark and of course flooding his vision with a blinding light. He could smell chemicals the second a burst of air swarmed his lungs. He felt as though he had been in a dream and awoke in panic. He could barely breathe properly. 

The only thing he saw once his vision adjusted was the ceiling. It was plain white, and had no decoration or feeling to it. The wall to the left of him was exactly the same other than a small table, and to the right was what caught his attention. A curtain on a rail. 

Well he knew where he was now. A hospital. It made sense as to why it smelt like pure chemicals and a sort of heavy atmosphere. A loud sob erupted from his chest. He remembered now. 

The preserve. The smell of the trees and the floor. The silence. The peace, and the feeling of freedom, and finally, the rope. The rope hanging from the branch of the tree. The one that was supposed to have finally allowed to him leave everything behind.

"Stiles! Stiles calm down, it's okay!" He heard a voice and although he closed his mouth the tears continued falling. Stiles sat up as best as he could after god knows how long of being out it and found at the foot of his bed was Derek. Derek Hale. 

"Why." Stiles said. "Why am I here?" He pressed.

Derek sighed and ran a hand over his face, if Stiles didn't know any better he would say he could've sworn he'd seen a few stray tears falling down the sour wolfs face, but as angry and aching as he felt right now Stiles knew better. 

"S-Stiles, I-I" Derek stuttered, something Stiles had sworn Derek had never done. "I found you, Stiles. You, were in the preserve, yo-you were hanging, f-from the tree, but you were still alive, barely." He explained. 

Stiles felt his chest grow heavy and more tears slipped past his eyes. He wasn't supposed to be here. It was meant to work, he was SUPPOSED to be FREE! Derek ruined it by saving him. A few minutes more, and he would finally have been free. 

He sobbed heavily into his hands and despite Derek speaking again he didn't stop. "Stiles we thought someone or something did this to you" hus words were barely audible.

"Get. Out." Stiles said angrily. "Now Derek!" He roared as he tried his best to move forward. When Derek finally left Stiles felt a small menacing chuckle slip past his lips. 

Derek had said he thought someone or something had done this to him. So they still didn't notice. How could they not have seen the bruises, the cuts, how did they miss all of the pain he was in? Were the truly that stupid? 

He hoped they were. He needed them oblivious. As long as they assumed that he was a target, they would not be likely to leave him alone. He had only three options that came to his scheming mind, and only one was particularly calling to him.

The first and best option required he end it this second. He would need to kill himself right now, when he was weak and when no one was here. He would have to find something that would end him quickly, and something that would be hard to resuscitate him from, seeing as he couldn't make quick work of unhooking himself from the heart monitor. 

A nurse walked in just as he was planning on drowning himself in the sink in the bathroom that was connected to his room and a deep anger bubbled in his chest at the fact that Beacon Hills hospital had such efficient staff members. 

His second plan, much to his dismay, required him at full strength and out of this damned hospital. He hated these places almost as much as he hated himself. He would need to go back to how things were before, him being hurt without anyone questioning it. 

He would need to pretend to be his old self so he could keep himself in that constant state of hurt. If he couldn't just die, he could atleast suffer. No one would be wiser. He was in constant danger all the time and no one ever took notice of who they thought was skinny defensless Stiles.

The final option, and by far his least favourite, was that he tell them the truth. He would tell them he did this to himself, and that he was meant to be dead had Derek not come across him just a few minutes too soon. He would tell them about how he hurt himself, and used other events as an excuse to get hurt. 

He threw up onto the bedsheets at the mere thought of them ever discovering how long he had been hurting this badly. The nurse gave him painkillers and a glass of water, informing him someone would change the sheets in a few minutes before leaving the room to get the doctor and contact his Father.

Stiles would have laughed. Why would his Father be here? He was the Sherrif, he had enough to worry about, of course he wouldn't take time out to come and check on his hospitalized son.

Sobs wracked his body. The voice roamed his brain in a permanent repeat. "Why didn't it work? I'm still here and I don't want to be. I cause nothing but trouble why am I not dead? Why did Derek save me? Why couldn't he have waited a few more minutes?" 

The words refused to stop and Stiles was driven to screaming his voice hoarse. He vaguely remembered his eyes darting across a needle on the table and he struggles to pull his body up. He was right, and the needle was still there. 

Stiles had always hated blood, though over the years he had grown more used to it. Where the needle would have scared him at one point, it practically beckoned him now. 

With shaking hands and a sick smile on his face, he picked it up. He aimed the needle directly at his wrists and with a small groan of pain from the sharp metal in the tender flesh, he began to drag it across his skin slowly. 

"Stiles no!" Melissa McCall chose this moment to run in to the room. The was careful to grab the needle from him, afraid to cause damage, and threw it into the trash. Stiles screamed at her to stop, to let him just do this and end it. 

She had no choice but to restrain him, keeping his wrists and legs attatched to the hospital bed as she treated the bleeding wound on his wrist. He continued to struggle and scream and sob, painful howls flowing endlessly from his throat. 

She sedated him and it didnt take too long for him to drift into a silent sleep, tears still running. She ran her fingers through his hair as his chest rose and fell. She daren't move, afraid that he was faking and that she would come back and he'd found a way to get out and finish what he had started. 

She had no choice. She had to tell John. There was very little she could tell him other than what she had seen. What had she seen? She wasn't sure. This wasn't the Stiles that she knew. This boy, begging for her to let him end it, screaming at her attempt to keep him from hurting himself.

What she had seen was a shadow of the boy that she had grown to know. What she had seen was a teenage boy, begging fir his death, and revelling in the blood falling from his wrist. What she'd seen would not be easily explained to John Stilinski, let alone the rest of the Pack. 

She had to tell them Stiles wasn't there anymore. This wasn't Stiles. This was a depressed teenager that had clearly relied on self harm, and had been hoping for death when Derek had found him hanging from the tree. 

"What happened to you?" She whisoered as she settled herself on the seat in the corner of the hospital room. Every member of the Pack was asking themselves that question when they saw their supposed friend.


	6. How to save a life

John couldn't believe it when Melissa told him about the incident at the hospital. Perhaps his problem was that actually, he could believe it. He could perfectly understand why his son, his boy, had attempted to kill himself, twice.

The thought of his only son hanging himself on purpose caused John to throw up on the side of the road. He stood there for several minutes, emptying the contents of his stomach. The image of his boy throwing a rope over a tree banch, as if it was his only way out, refused to leave his mind. He was plagued with these thoughts the entire time he was driving to the hospital.

He hadn't been there enough. He knew that already, he was constantly away from home. Stiles was almost always alone in the house, if he was ever at the house in the first place, John didn't know. He was never there to find out and of course the curfew had been removed when John found out Stiles was working with a pack of werewolves to keep their town safe. 

He hadn't been a good Father. This thought was only magnified when he reached the hospital. Everyone he looked at seemed to see right through him, as if they knew why he was here, like they knew all about his son's suicide attempt. John had to correct himself and say attempts. He'd tried more than once.

It took only a few minutes before John had recieved the number for the room Stiles was in. It took another few minutes of him running to find it. Just a few minutes, but when he arrived in the designated room he could've sworn he was stood in that doorway for hours, as though time had stopped. 

Laying on the bed was his boy, asleep. He looked so content, and John cried heavily at the sight. There was a fresh bandage on the boys arm, from the needle he'd been using. John could see the marks where the rope had hung around his neck. But it still looked like Stiles, peaceful and calm. 

John threw up for the second time that day. Stiles still looked like himself, though his eyes were sunken in and he looked as though he'd been sick for the longest time. That's what hurt him most. Stiles had been hiding himself so well, for god knows how long. John hadn't noticed. Stiles' friends hadn't noticed. 

No one had. If they had, maybe they could've fixed this sooner. But Stiles had always been far too good at keeping a secret. This was one John wished Stiles had never tried to keep to himself. He was too good at hiding and it made John think back to dozens of events that should've screamed at him that his son wasn't okay, and he'd brushed them off. 

Stiles would come in from school, and sometimes John was home just long enough to catch a glimpse of him. He looked exhausted, and he looked unbelievably done with being a teenager. John would just laugh at himself, he remembered being exhausted from late night study sessions. Add that to everything supernatural Stiles helped with and he was bound to be tired. 

If only he had seen this sooner. He could have prevented it. He should have been there to help his son, with whatever he needed. Be it girls or boys, classes or lacrosse, the best and worst days. He could have saved him if he'd been there.

"God Stiles" he said, taking the hand of his resting son. "I'm so sorry." Tears began falling from his eyes again, and this time he didn't dare try to stop them from doing so. "I should've been home more. I should have been there. I could have. God I don't know why I wasn't. You've been through so much, and you've always come out of it okay. But maybe you were never okay."

Stiles of course hadnt moved. As far as his Father knew he was asleep, and Stiles had always been excellent at pretending. He was used to it.

"I should've made you talk to me instead of letting you go through this alone. You must've been so lonely and hurt to do this to yourself. But when you wake up we're gonna talk. I can fix this." His Father said, standing and leaving as he was ushered out by a nurse.

Stiles opened his eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. He'd caused even more trouble now. Now his Father would be trying to help him, always worrying about him. He should've tried harder to finish it. Should have chosen a different, more effective way, to get it over with.

He curled up as best he could given the fact his limbs were numb. He sat there, alone as he always was, and cried. Cried because he was hurting people when he was supposed to be gone. Cried because he couldn't even kill himself right and now other people were paying the price. Cried because he didn't want to be here. Cried because he didn't know what else to do.


	7. Fix You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fix You - Coldplay

it wasn't long before everyone insisted on coming by to see him. Melissa never allowed any other nurse to tend to him, knowing he would easily bare faced lie and say he was fine. She knew logically that no one would believe him, but no one questioned her, allowing her to be with the boy.

If there was one thing everybody was certain of, it was that this wasn't Stiles. This wasn't the sarcastic hyperactive boy they'd grown to love. At the same time, they all guessed that had they payed more attention they would know Stiles hadn't been Stiles in a very long time.

Of course everyone pushed to make excuses, but they all knew it would never matter. They were at fault, and if not the main reason then atleast a factor in why Stiles was so hurt. But it was too late anyway. They could make their excuses, place blame, but they all felt the guilt eating away at their stomaches.

It went on for months. Even months after Melissa had gone into the hospital room and found Stiles unconsious on his bed. No, not unconsious, but dead. In the night he had managed to finally do what he had been aiming for.

Everyone grieved of course. Had Stiles been around he wouldv'e hated them for doing so. He didn't deserve to be mourned, and despite having suceeded in his mission, he would have hated how much attention it brought him.

The funeral was the talk of the town. The boy who had taken his life. Taken the cowards way out. The one who couldn't keep fighting. He had always been the pathetic, weak human. But now he could rest knowing he would never bother or burden anyone again.


End file.
